Some Kind of Hero
by shoreleave
Summary: Dean's alone and injured, in the middle of a hunt he can't recall the details of. What he does remember is the djinn, and what he left behind. Set in season two, after the events of What Is and What Should Never Be.


**A/N: **Written for the 2014 Summergen challenge.

* * *

><p>First, Dean's aware of a crippling pain in the back of his head and not much else.<p>

He drifts in and out of consciousness for a bit.

**SpN*SpN*SpN*SpN**

When he finally manages to keep his eyes open for more than a few seconds, the headache's still there, still bad. The light filtering down through the tree branches—_Trees? What's he doing in the woods?_—stabs at his retinas, and he narrows his eyes into slits.

Wincing, he tentatively blinks out at the world a little more. He can see the blurry forms of tree trunks towering over him, and lower-hanging braches and plants nearby.

It gradually dawns on him that he's sprawled on the ground in a _forest _and there are wet leaves and twigs and other slimy things pressing into his cheek. It's cold, and there's a rich, earthy smell clogging his nostrils.

Ugh. He hates nature.

He waits for the details to come rushing back to him, something that will explain what he's doing here with a killer headache, but… _nothing._ He can't remember being anywhere near a forest lately, not since they got flagged down by that Molly chick who was actually a spirit… And that was months ago.

"Saaaam," he groans, drawing the name out like a complaint. "M'head fucking _hurts_."

But there's no response, just a deathly quiet that makes him more aware of the way his head is pounding mercilessly. In the distance, he can hear the rumble of machinery. Loggers, maybe.

"Sam?" he calls again, louder. The effort makes his headache ratchet up even further. He waits again, listening, but there's no answer.

His breaths quicken as a panicky repetition of _what-the-hell-is-going-on_ starts thundering through his head. He's alone. Alone in the woods, with a monster headache and a big blank space where his memory should be.

Moving slowly, he starts taking stock of his body, carefully drawing his legs up under him and pushing up onto his knees. His limbs seem to be fine, no broken bones or bleeding gashes. He looks around, but his eyes aren't focusing right. All he can see are trees, muddy clumps of leaves, and tangled undergrowth right at his eye level.

And—thank God—the barrel of his rifle, not three feet away.

He grabs the weapon, relieved to have its familiar weight in his hands. Sitting back against the tree trunk, he opens the bolt, ejects the magazine. It's got wrought-iron bullets… so he must be after a spirit, or maybe some kind of demon. By the look of the trees, he's probably somewhere north, maybe New England. Maybe he's hunting the ghost of a dead logger. Or a pukwudgie. None of it rings a bell.

Whatever. He can't stay here, freezing his buns on the cold ground and waiting for something to hunt _him_.

He hauls himself to his feet, leaning heavily on the tree trunk for support, hissing as the throbbing in his head intensifies with his movement. He blinks and rubs his eyes, but his vision is still blurry, and he's not feeling too steady on his feet.

When he probes carefully with his fingers at the back of his head (_owww_) he can feel there's some kind of wound there, swollen and sticky with blood.

Crap. He's clearly got a concussion, which explains why he's dizzy and nauseous, and can't remember where the hell he is. He's had concussions before, and he knows a headache is the least of his worries. His concentration will be shot and his reactions will be sluggish. He'll be off his game, and that can be deadly on a hunt.

The thought of how vulnerable he is makes his heart race. He reaches around—slowly, don't want to put any lurking demons on the alert-to the small of his back. He can feel the comforting weight of his .45 tucked into his jeans, and breathes a sigh of relief. Boot knife, ditto.

So, he's on a hunt, armed to the teeth. No flare gun, though, so he's not after a wendigo.

He can almost hear Sam's voice in his head: _Deep breaths, Dean, come on. It'll come back to you, just relax._ Sam's got that sincere, gentle tone he uses on freaked-out witnesses and distraught relatives. It's an act, complete with the puppy dog eyes that go with it like a matched set, and Dean's seen him turn it on and off like water. But it's the soothing tone he uses when Dean's hurt or really sick, and damn it, Dean really wants to hear it now, because—

He leans over and pukes, one arm wrapped around the tree trunk to keep him from toppling over, the other cradling his skull, which is hammering in sharp throbs. When the retching eases and his brain stops trying to burst out of his skull, he straightens up again (_crap, he really needs to sit down_), spitting to get the taste out. He needs water.

It's only then that he spots his backpack—what's the matter with him, he's obviously not firing on all thrusters—lying not six feet away, half-covered under some vegetation.

There's half a bottle of water in it, which he uses to rinse out his mouth. And a Snickers, his cell phone, extra ammo, and his wallet. He flips the phone open, but there's no reception. (Of course there isn't. Nature sucks.) Inside the wallet there are a few bills, and a card identifying him as Dale Crover, a forest ranger with the New York Department of Environmental Conservation.

He's got to find Sam. Where the hell _is_ he, and why are they separated in the first place?

Problem is, Dean's in the woods with trees all around, so he doesn't have a clue which way to go. He can't see a clearing from where he is, or a road, stream, or anything but… trees. He should probably stay right where he is, and wait for Sam to come to him. In fact, that idea has a certain appeal, since he's not particularly steady on his feet and his head is throbbing with a constant, deep ache. And he doesn't have a clue what he's hunting. For that matter, he doesn't even know if Sam's looking for him… or with him on the hunt at all.

He can feel his anxiety starting to morph into panic.

_Calm down, asshole_, he tells himself fiercely. _What's the last thing you remember?_

A memory jumps out at him. They're in a house somewhere—San Francisco, his mind supplies-and his brother's face is streaked with tears, his cheek scratched and bloody.

"Sammy, I got this one," he remembers himself saying. "I'll do it." _It _means killing Sammy's girlfriend for him, because he's an awesome big brother, never mind the idea's making him nauseous. Madison's a nice girl and it's not her fault.

"She asked me to."

"You don't have to."

"Yes I do. Please… just wait here." Sam's voice cracks, but he straightens his shoulders and holds out his hand for the gun. And Dean waits there, like Sam wants him to. He flinches when he hears the gunshot, even though he's expecting it.

Good to know _that_ traumatic memory's intact. Sam was messed up for weeks afterward.

The call from Deacon came a month later, and off they went to prison. Not Dean's brightest idea, as it turned out. He got punched, kicked, sent into solitary, and generally abused, while Sam just got angrier and angrier at him. Sam's resentment finally boiled over at the end, and their staged fight wound up being a lot more realistic than it needed to be. (_"This was your stupid plan. I went along with it, but we're sticking to the plan, Dean… Don't you turn away from me!"_). Dean had caught an inquiring look from Deacon, but he ignored it.

By the time they managed to torch the bones of the whacko prison nurse, Sam seemed to have his head back in the game, more or less. If he was still pissed at Dean, at least he was hiding it better.

Then they went after the djinn. Dean might have been in a dream world, but remembers almost everything about it (_"It's everything you want. We're a family again."_). It's all too clear in his memory: every poignant moment with his mother, every argument with Sam. He'd finally understood the djinn was draining him of life and fought his way back home, despite the cost, despite his fear that he was making a mistake.

He'd spent a week recuperating in their hotel room, and truthfully, that part was a little hazy. Dean was lightheaded and weak from blood loss, but with Henriksen sniffing at their heels, they couldn't take the chance of checking Dean into the hospital too. So Sam raided a blood bank and patched him up. Dean slept for the better part of three days while his shoulder muscles healed and his wrists scabbed over, and a few more days after that drinking Gatorade and catching up on his soaps.

There might have been an uncomfortable conversation with Sam at some point... He could probably remember most of it, if he really tried. But he's not trying right now because it's not relevant.

The relevant part is where they decided to go after they left the hotel, but… it's still a blank. Nada. He doesn't remember them catching the trail of another hunt, doesn't remember the research or the ride.

God, his head hurts. The more he tries to concentrate, the worse it pounds.

How the hell did he get a concussion, anyway? Did he fall out of the tree? Not likely, since the only injury he's got is that bloody lump on the back of his head. Frowning, he scans the area, looking for a clue. There's a branch at his feet, about three feet long and sturdy. Did he get knocked out by a falling branch? That is just _embarrassing_… But then again, it doesn't really make sense, because the blood's on the back on his head, not the top.

There's an easier, more ominous explanation: maybe somebody—some_thing_?—took a swing at him with the branch like a baseball bat, and then ran away.

Or maybe it's still here, nearby.

He shivers, hardly breathing, sweeping the terrain with his gaze. If something's out there, it's quiet, and it's not moving. Dean can't hear anything but the rustling of the leaves and a few birds, and far away the distant whirr of heavy equipment.

And then the skin on the back of his neck prickles, and he freezes. He holds himself as still as possible, listening.

He got a hunter's instinct, and he _knows_.

He's being watched.

**SpN*SpN*SpN*SpN**

Staying put's not an option anymore, so Dean decides to head toward the loggers. It's as good a direction as any. He shoulders the backpack and sets out as quietly as he can, his rifle gripped in his right hand.

He empties his stomach contents again before he makes it twenty feet. He doubles over, retching. He's shaky and dizzy, and just wants to lie down and sleep it off. Or, better yet, what he'd really like is for his brother to show up—or anyone, really, he's not going to be picky—and somehow get him out of this fucking nature hike.

It takes him almost a minute of leaning against a tree trunk, heaving and gulping, before he remembers he's been attacked and there's something out there watching him.

_Right. Gotta get a move on._

The fear spurs him on. He keeps his left hand out for balance, and lurches from tree to tree, in a fog of misery. Sam had better be looking for him. It's not as if Dean's going to be hard to track, shuffling along and panting.

After half an hour of slow progress—he can hear the loggers' trucks and machinery more clearly now, although he's still surrounded by nothing but trees, trees, and more trees—he has to stop. He retches again, the back of his head throbbing so badly he can't stop himself from moaning pathetically. He lets himself sink down to the ground and settles back against a tree trunk, closing his eyes in exhaustion. Just for a minute.

**SpN*SpN*SpN*SpN**

He comes back to himself with a sudden burst of adrenaline, heart pounding. On reflex, he jerks the rifle to his shoulder before he's even aware of what he's reacting to.

His eyes land on something rustling in the brush about twenty feet away, a twist of movement. An animal, maybe…It stops and turns toward him, and for an instant, Dean locks his gaze on a pair of unblinking, gleaming eyes. The creature lets out a low snarl that sends a shudder through him. It's a warning, Dean thinks; or maybe a statement of intent. Whatever it is, it's unmistakably evil.

Then it scampers away so fast all he can see is a blur of motion and the shaking of the plants in its wake. He scrambles to his feet, but he's too slow to catch more than a glimpse of a wiry body and long arms, like a chimpanzee. It's moving fast, out of range before he can even aim the rifle… heading toward the loggers.

This is what he's hunting, no doubt about it. New York doesn't have any wild monkeys or chimps living in the forests. This creature, whatever it is, probably clobbered him on the head, and now it's heading toward those loggers. It's moving a hell of a lot faster than he is. And it's not friendly.

Dean staggers along after it, but he's way too slow. He can barely stand up without swaying, and his vision is still blurry. The sad fact is, this monkey-demon, or whatever it is, could probably knock him over by pelting him with bananas. People are in danger and Dean's practically useless.

He tries the phone again, but the reception's still out. No surprise there. Maybe this is a variation of the djinn attack, except this time instead of a dream world, he's landed in the nightmare land of Murphy's Law. He's about to toss the useless gadget back into the backpack, but on impulse, he clicks on the messages. Maybe there's something there that will tell him where Sam is or what they're after.

The latest one is from Sam, from 10:21 that morning. Four hours ago, according to his watch. _Met the ME, could be an ap. More interviews, meet you back at the camp._

ME must be medical examiner, but what the hell is an _ap_? The only _ap_ Dean's ever heard of is a female spirit that preys on young women in Cambodia… and the only reason he knows about _that_ is the horror flick he saw a while back on cable, _Lady Vampire_. (The girls were hot, but the special effects were totally crap and he didn't have the patience for the subtitles.) Not likely to be their hunt in upstate New York at a logging camp.

He flicks back on previous messages, hoping for another clue, but they're all from days ago.

SAM THE BITCH: _They don't have blueberry. Apple or strawberry rhubarb._

SAM THE BITCH: _I'm at the diner. You're getting a burger and salad, yes I said salad as in leafy green, and no whining. You need the iron. _

SAM THE BITCH: _Stop being such a dick. I'll get you some reading material, okay? Muscle Car or Cosmo?_

SAM THE BITCH: _NO, Dean. Just NO._

He grins to himself. Sam was in full nursemaid mode after the djinn incident. Dean might have milked it, just a little bit.

SAM THE BITCH: _Pick up, Dean. Where the hell are you?_

His grin fades. That was from the djinn hunt. His gut twists as the guilt washes over him again.

He remembers feeling his blood run cold as he was flipping through the travel brochure as they were getting ready to leave the hotel. In the awkward conversation that followed, he couldn't bring himself to tell his brother that Carmen, the gorgeous nurse ("We can have a future together. Have our own family… I love you.") was nothing more than a smiling face in an ad for Mexican beer. Sam had Jess, Dad had Mary, and Dean had… a Photoshop touch-up job from a travel brochure. It was too humiliating to put into words.

**SpN*SpN*SpN*SpN**

_He hides his anguish behind a smirk. "You should have seen it, Sam. You were such a wussy."_

_Sam smiles, but it's brief. "So we didn't get along then, huh? I thought it was supposed to be this perfect fantasy."_

_"It wasn't," Dean says flatly. "It was just a wish. I wished for Mom to live." All these years, Sam's been the one demanding safety and normalcy, and Dean's been the one defending Dad and his quest. It turns out he's a hypocrite. The truth is, he's been nursing a deep-seated desire to ditch the hunting life and mow the lawn. Dad would be disgusted if he knew._

_"I'm glad you dug yourself out, Dean." Sam sounds as if he's choosing his words carefully, building up to something. "Most people wouldn't've had the strength, would have just stayed." _

_Of course Dean knows he couldn't have stayed, that it wasn't real. But it doesn't change the wanting. _

_"I wanted to stay," he admits. "I wanted to stay so bad… I mean, ever since Dad"—(ever since Dad sold his soul for me, sacrificed himself for me, ohgod went to Hell for me)—"all I can think about is how much this job's cost us. We've lost so much. We've sacrificed so much." The djinn made what he was missing so tangible, so real, he can't put it out of his mind._

_"But people are alive because of you." Dean scoffs at that, but Sam insists, "It's worth it, Dean. It is. It's not fair, and it hurts like hell, but... it's worth it." _

_Is it? He's not sure anymore. He wants to shrug it off, to agree with Sam and get back to business as usual, but it feels like too much of a lie right now. What the hell do they really have, besides each other? And is that all there's ever going to be?_

_ "Whatever," Dean grits out, turning away. He doesn't want to talk about it anymore, doesn't want to acknowledge how much he hurts. But he can tell Sam's not done with this conversation. But Sam's observing him carefully, and there's something else there, some question in his eyes above and beyond his concern for Dean. "You got something you wanna ask, Sammy?"_

_His brother takes a deep breath and pauses, which is Sam-code for I'm-gonna-sucker-punch-you. Dean braces himself, because whatever Sam's about to say, he's not going to like it._

_"So the world the djinn created, it was a fantasy, right? Your deepest wish." _

_"I didn't wish for us not to get along, Sammy," he says helplessly. If anything, that was what gave him the strength to plunge the knife into his chest, in the end._

_Sam shakes his head. "No, I know. That's not the point I'm trying to make… Look, Dean, I understand your wanting to see Mom alive." He looks apologetic. "I get it, man. You miss her. But what surprises me is that Dad was dead."_

_Dean tenses, looks away. "Mom said he died of a stroke, in his sleep, years ago."_

_"Is that what you wish for?"_

_He jumps to his feet and advances toward Sam, fists clenched. The little prick. "What the fuck do you mean by that?" he spits out._

_"Sorry, sorry! That came out wrong. Come on, sit down." Sam holds his hands up in front of him in a placating gesture, puppy eyes out in full force, and Dean reluctantly takes a seat again. "I meant Dad wasn't around, in your fantasy world. He was gone. He just slipped away peacefully, right? And then you could live your life, marry Carmen—"_

_"There _is_ no Carmen, Sam! I don't even know a girl like that." He doesn't mention the model in the El Sol ad, because the whole situation's pathetic enough as it is. "And it's not like I had any say in it! I didn't kill him off on purpose, so just back off!"_

_"Okay. I didn't say you did. But the djinn's world was like a dream, a reflection of your subconscious thoughts."_

_"Well, thank you, Dr. Phil. So you're saying I wanted to get rid of Dad? I would've been happier if he died in his sleep years ago?"_

_"I don't know, Dean. Would you?"_

**SpN*SpN*SpN*SpN**

Fuck Sam. Fuck his stupid pointed questions and his need to talk about things.

And to hell with sitting here. He needs to find that creature, whatever it is, because it's clearly up to no good and heading in the direction of the loggers. Even though he'd like nothing more than to rest here for another hour. Or three.

He needs to find Sam. His brother, who's got his revenge to sustain him like Dad, now, and his visions to spur him on. Unlike Dean, who has…

What exactly does he have?

Dad had a cryptic answer for that, of course. _"We're all going to have our parts to play. For now you've gotta trust me, son."_

Fuck Dad, too. When did anyone ask him if he wanted to play his part?

He sighs, shoves the cell phone back into the backpack and slings the strap over his shoulder. There's an evil creature out there heading toward innocent people, and he might not be much use right now, but he's got to try and stop it. He staggers up and moves on.

**SpN*SpN*SpN*SpN**

He makes slow progress. Two hours have gone by, according to his watch, and he can hear the tractors and the chainsaws more clearly now. But he still can't see anything but trees.

Dean saw a documentary on logging once. It's a badass job. In fact, he reflects, logging might not be a bad career choice, if he ever wants to get out of hunting. It's dangerous, rugged work, so he'll feel right at home. He's strong and fast on his feet. He's already used to moving from place to place, never having much of a home life. No higher education required, so he'll be qualified, no prob.

He could see himself in a hard hat and heavy boots, driving a John Deere. He wouldn't mind being one of the guys wielding the chain saw, toppling the trees and watching them crash down, or driving one of the huge harvesters.

Of course, there's the nature issue. He hates snakes and insects, mosquitos are bloodsuckers in the same category as vamps, and working in the rain, cold, and sleet would definitely be a turn-off.

So maybe logging's out.

He could always enlist, become a Marine. He's 27, maybe a little older than average but still eligible.

He'd made one aborted attempted to bring it up with Dad in that first, lonely year after Sam left for Stanford. He'd been lost, morose, drinking too much, taking too many risks when he was hunting. Dad was pissed at him all the time, it seemed. Separating had seemed like a good option, to Dean at least. But Dad hadn't agreed.

"You want to do something meaningful with yourself, son?" his father had asked, his tone dripping with cynicism. "Serve in the military? 'Be all you can be'?"

"Maybe." He resented the way his father refused to take the idea seriously, but at the same time, he wasn't really enthusiastic about joining up. He wasn't sure what he wanted, except maybe some direction, some purpose in his life. A sense of belonging. Sammy'd gone off without a backward glance, and Dad was off hunting on his own half the time. "Maybe I just want to fight for my country."

"You can do that right here. You're a hunter. That's what we _do_. We save lives. It's important."

Dean shrugged and turned away, but his father added, "Don't fool yourself into thinking the brotherhood of the Corps is a replacement for family, Dean. Your place is right here." He paused. "With _me_."

Dad didn't say, of course, with _us_. But Dean had dropped the idea, uncomfortable with signing away four years of his life (eight, if he counted reserve duty) and a gnawing suspicion he'd wind up spending more time with a mop and a bucket than with an M16.

He stayed with Dad, went with Dad's agenda. He stopped questioning it because what could he possibly say that would carry more weight than saving innocent people? So what if he was lonely and spent more nights than he could count with a bottle of Jack for company. He could suck it up.

Until the djinn.

He remembers kneeling at his father's grave in Lawrence—in the djinn's world, of course, because in real life Dad got salted and burned like he deserved—saying the words he's never dared to speak aloud. "Why is it my job to save these people? Who do I have to be some kind of hero? What about _us_… why do we have to sacrifice everything, Dad?"

It didn't make him feel better, to get that out. Just let in a wave of depression he hasn't been able to shake.

**SpN*SpN*SpN*SpN**

He finally makes his way out of the trees, emerging in a clearing near a muddy road. A few low-lying buildings are visible not far off, and there are some workers milling around. A truck is lumbering up toward the camp.

Civilization. Thank God, because he's about ready to drop. He's sweating despite the chill in the air, still nauseous and dizzy.

And then he freezes. The monkey creature is right there, not thirty feet from him, crouching on a tree branch across the road. It looks disturbingly like a chimp, but it's got a malevolent gleam in its eyes that tells him this thing didn't escape from the zoo.

It's staring right at him, motionless. Almost like it's waiting for him.

He braces the rifle against his shoulder, moving slowly, never letting it out of his sight. For a minute, it's a standoff. He fingers the trigger, taking deep, even breaths. He can't miss this shot.

Then it reaches up and breaks off a thick branch—_How the hell can it do that, it's a lot stronger than it looks_—and rears up on its hind legs.

Everything after that happens in a blur. There's a swish of movement. Dean fires, but the creature is _fast_, and suddenly the branch is hurtling right at him like a throwing stick. He ducks, but not fast enough.

His left shoulder explodes with pain as he's knocked down, and he lets out an involuntary cry. His head smacks the ground and the pain flares up so badly that for a second or two he can't move, can't think, can't react.

But he has to get up, because that little shit of a monkey's got a power arm like Nolan Ryan and he _missed_ it. There's a camp of unsuspecting loggers who're going to be sitting ducks if he doesn't take it down.

It's his father's voice he always hears at moments like these, snapping orders at him like a drill sergeant. _Move, Dean! Stop lying around like a pansy! Now!_

He hates it, but it gets him up, his mind reverberating with an unconscious _yessir_.

Gritting his teeth, he clutches his left arm to keep it still—God that hurts, it's dislocated for sure—as he struggles to his knees. He steadies himself like that for a few seconds, panting and biting back a moan. Curious George is still there, the little shithead, glaring at him from his perch in the tree. His eyes have a weird yellow gleam.

This isn't how he ever expected to end it, on his knees in the woods facing a demonized Cheeta, but he's not going down that easily. And if he does, he's taking this thing with him.

He reaches down, letting his fingers curl around the rifle, lying on the ground next to him. He's only going to be able to get off one more shot, so he's got to make it count. He can barely keep his balance steady as it is, and the recoil's going to be hell on his left shoulder, not to mention his head. He's not looking forward to that, but it's not relevant now.

He's got a job to do (Dad drove that lesson home, for sure), and one thing about Dean is, he never backs down. Even when he knows he's going to pay the cost.

The creature stares at him, unmoving, as Dean slowly raises the rifle and aims, then squeezes off the shot.

The kickback jolts into his body like a punch, dragging a hoarse cry out of him. The pain reverberates so intensely through his shoulder he can't help cringing, moaning, curling into himself in a vain attempt to escape it. His head chimes in with a sharp throbbing in tune with his racing heartbeat.

Gasping, he blinks up at the tree where the creature was. But it's gone.

For a brief second, he thinks he might have hit it. But then something moves at the edge of his vision, along the tree line, and he knows it's not over yet.

His right hand fumbles for his .45, tucked into his belt. He might not be able to stop the creature, but he can slow it down… maybe.

Another beat and the creature is right there, in front of him, a thick branch clutched in one hand. (Clearly, wooden sticks are its weapon of choice.) Up close, the creature's not so much a chimpanzee as a sort of wiry gorilla, with long, muscular arms and an elongated snout.

Dean raises the gun, but the thing is already swinging the branch toward him. It's point-blank range so he can't miss, but-

(_this is it, Sam I'm sorry_)

Two shots ring out in rapid succession. There's a flash of light and the creature's gone, leaving behind a swirl of dirt and a whiff of sulfur.

It's a second or two before Dean realizes what happened. Sam is there, rushing up to him, rifle in hand. Dean sways on his knees, the adrenaline surge leaving him drained and trembling. The chimp is gone, apparently blasted back to wherever it came from by his brother, and good fucking riddance.

"Dean! Are you all right?" Sam's suddenly crouching down in front of him. "That was way too close! Hey, man, you're kind of unsteady, let me…" He grabs Dean's shoulders before he can protest.

The pain that knifes through his left shoulder is so intense his whole body crumples in on itself, and he lets out a full-throated cry. Sam releases his grip and jerks back, his eyes wide and horrified. "What's wrong? What did I do?"

"Shoulder," Dean manages to grit out. "Don' touch it."

"Sorry, sorry, I won't, okay?" Sam sits back on his heels, waiting for Dean to stop panting. "I've been waiting for you for hours, figured you must've caught a ride with the cutting crew. But they got back twenty minutes ago and you weren't with them. They said they never met up with you…"

Dean gives him an awkward one-sided shrug. He doesn't really remember.

"I was just coming down the road to look for you when I heard your rifle. You're damn lucky I got here when I did. That demon was already in mid-swing…"

Dean nods, still trying to get control of his breath. "Yeah, thought I was… about to be monkey chow… What the hell _was_ it?"

Sam gives him an odd look. "It's the argopelter. It's what we've been hunting, didn't you recognize it?"

Dean points vaguely in the direction of the back of his head. "Little creep brained me with a tree branch. Memory's a little Swiss cheese-y. Argo _what_?"

Sam moves behind him, and Dean can feel his fingers gently probing at the wound on the back of his skull.

"Argopelter," Sam repeats, sounding distracted. "This looks serious, Dean, we need to get you inside. And your shoulder doesn't look like it's sitting right. Might be dislocated."

No shit. "Pop it back."

Sam walks back around to face him, shaking his head and frowning. "Not here. Let's head back to the camp office and get you cleaned up."

Dean sighs. "Swell."

**SpN*SpN*SpN*SpN**

The walk to the camp is slow and unpleasant. It's about two hundred yards of uneven ground, and every step jars his shoulder painfully. Sam uses the time to fill him in on what he's apparently forgotten: the articles in the New York papers about the three loggers who died on the job in the past month, all from the same cutting crew; the trail of similar incidents in Vermont, Maine, and upstate New York over the past four decades; the research they did at the Adirondack Museum, looking into old logging records and lumberjack legends.

By the time they get Dean out of his jacket and shirt and sitting on a chair in the camp clinic—nothing more than the back room of the main office, equipped with a sink and a first aid kit that's not nearly as good as the one in the Impala—he's exhausted. He's shivering, holding his left arm folded against his bare chest.

"You sure you want me to do this?" Sam asks doubtfully. "I've watched you do it twice for Dad, but that's not the same… I can call for the medic—"

"No. Just you." He can barely tolerate Sam's hands on him, but the thought of a stranger's fingers poking and prodding him makes him shudder. "I can talk you through it."

Sam nods, though he's clearly uncertain. "Okay, we'll take it slow, then. Nice and gentle." He's using that soothing tone. Dean nods, lapping up the comfort, relaxing a little, even though he knows that what's coming is going to hurt like a bitch.

Sam kneels down at his left, supporting Dean's flexed elbow tucked against his left side. With his right hand, he gradually swivels Dean's forearm out from his chest until it's perpendicular to his body. He does it so slowly and gently that the pain stays bearable, and Dean relaxes a little more. "Ready?"

Dean swallows and nods tightly. He uncurls out of his slouch, sitting up as straight as he can. "You have to rotate my lower arm to the side until you feel resistance."

Sam complies, moving it out slowly and steadily, keeping Dean's upper arm and elbow pressed against his body. "Relax, okay?" he says when Dean tenses. "I'm not gonna force it. So, uh, the argopelter… There are stories about it from lumberjacks all over the northern U.S. We found a picture in a book called Fearsome Creatures of the Lumberwoods, published back in 1910." The _ap_ from his brother's text message suddenly makes sense.

"They get it right?" Dean asks, in a tight voice. "Ugly monkey with long arms?"

"Shh, it's okay, I'll go slower. From what I could see, yeah, close enough." He flashes Dean a wry smile. "Wasn't hard to identify, standing over you with a big branch."

The pain flares and Dean jerks back involuntarily. "Stop, stop!"

"Okay, I'm stopping. Try to relax the muscles… Take a deep breath and let it out." He waits until Dean gives him a nod, then rotates the arm a little further. "So the argopelter—"

"S-stupid name," Dean manages. "For a chimp that throws sticks." He's trying not to tense up, but his shoulder's in steady pain now, and his breaths are coming faster.

Sam laughs, then sobers. "Some of the old timers called it the widowmaker, and they weren't laughing when they talked about it. Bobby says it's a demonic spirit that likes to prey on loggers and lumberjacks, supposedly in revenge for cutting down its trees."

"What, a demon with… _ah!..._ a c-conscience?"

Sam stops again, waits. "Who knows. Probably just likes the killing. It hides up in the trees, waits until somebody comes by alone, then whips a tree branch at him."

"Yeah, I got the memo."

Sam resumes his slow, steady pull. "Well, you're lucky, Dean, because there are hardly any witnesses. This thing's fast and deadly. The obits mostly reported that the lumberjacks were killed by falling branches." He's got Dean's arm held out to the side. "Now what?"

"Lift the back of my arm up and forward, then rotate my lower arm back in." This is the tough part, and he braces himself.

"Relax…" Sam soothes when he starts to pant. "Nice and slow, don't tense up, I'm not gonna hurt you-"

There's a hot flare of pain as the bone slips back into the socket. Dean grunts and twists away, chest heaving. Sam squeezes the back of his neck in apology, murmuring, "That's it, all done, it's all over."

The pain dies down to a manageable ache in seconds, and Dean lets out a relieved sigh. "Not bad for a first try," he admits. "Tell me how we got separated."

"It was your idea. I interviewed the medical examiner and then the foreman, and you went off to meet up with the cutting crew." Sam grins. "You said you'd always wanted to be a forest ranger."

Yeah, that sounded like something he'd say. "Hey, nobody messes with Smokey the Bear."

"Guess Smokey never had to deal with a demon trying to kill him with a tree branch. Hold still now, I'm going to clean out this cut."

**SpN*SpN*SpN*SpN**

Half an hour later, they're on the road again, heading down to Syracuse to find a motel as the sun sets. Dean's wiped out, his head slumped against the car door.

"Don't fall asleep, Dean. You've got a concussion."

"I'm _beat,_ Sam," he grumbles. "Been hiking in the woods all day. Oh, and yeah, I got attacked by a demon. Twice."

Sam glances over at him, giving him his patented bitchface before turning back to the road. "I'm serious. You could have a subdural hematoma."

Dean's way too tired for those long medical terms. "Don't have one of those. Just got a knock on the head. I'll be fine once I get some sleep."

"It means bleeding into your brain. It can develop hours after the original injury. If you fall asleep, I won't know you're in trouble."

"I'm not gonna start bleeding into my brain!"

"Fine," Sam agrees. "Let's just talk, okay? You've been pretty quiet."

"I'm in_ pain_, Sammy," he says irritably. "You try getting whacked on the head and the shoulder by a creepy little monkey and see how talkative _you_ are."

"You were getting quiet before this happened. You've been down for weeks, Dean. You've barely said a word since the djinn."

Dean sighs. "It's nothing. I'm just tired. Been a rough couple of months."

Sam gives him a wary look out of the corner of his eye. "It's Dad, isn't it? First him dying the way he did… and then the djinn's world…"

_…where you killed him in his sleep, _Dean finishes in his mind, and shoots his brother a glare. "I've got a concussion, remember? It's not a good time for a chat."

"You just listen, then. I think I know what's bothering you."

Dean runs his fingers through his hair, rubs at his temples. "You know what, Sam? You're an arrogant bastard. You don't have a clue what's bothering me—"

"So something _is_ bothering you!"

"—and I said I don't want to talk about it!"

Sam drives silently for a minute, then glances over at him again. "There's something I've been meaning to say."

A muscle in his cheek twitches. "_Drop_ it, Sam!"

"No." Sam pulls off smoothly onto the shoulder of the road, while Dean stares resolutely out the window.

"I owe you an apology," Sam says quietly, after a pause. "I should never have said what I said, about you wishing Dad had died in his sleep. I know that's not true."

"Just forget it."

"I can't. It was a shitty thing to suggest. Come on, look at me, Dean."

Dean scowls up at his brother, rolling his eyes. He doesn't want or need apologies. Sam had only said aloud what had already been jangling around in Dean's mind. Even if he didn't do it on purpose, he'd created a world without his father. And then, what he'd said over Dad's grave… Those words were _his_. He couldn't blame them on the djinn.

Undeterred, Sam continues, "I've been doing a lot of thinking, and I realized… I was wrong. Really wrong." His voice is contrite and pained.

"About _what_?"

"The djinn created a dream world, and I guess it plucked things out of your mind it thought would make you want to stay. So Mom was there, and I was with Jess, and you had Carmen…"

"Forget Carmen!" Dean snaps. "Carmen was nobody. She was a face on a beer ad in a magazine back at the motel!"

"She was a _what_?" Sam looks a little perplexed. "Okay, it doesn't matter. That's not the point anyway."

"What _is_ the fucking point?"

"See? You didn't want Carmen, not really. She was just a fantasy. And maybe deep down you've fantasized about a life where Dad was a softball coach and died in his sleep… But that doesn't mean you wanted it, Dean, any more than a nightmare is what you really want on a conscious level."

"You don't know that. I don't even know that."

"No," he says with such certainty that Dean's taken aback. "You wouldn't have chosen a life without Dad, or a life where we didn't connect. You had the strength to come back. You didn't want an ordinary life."

Dean feels the prickle of tears at the corner of his eyes. It's the concussion, he thinks, making him overreact. Probably. He covers it with a cynical laugh. "I'm a masochist, Sammy. Or an idiot. That's for sure."

"Stop belittling yourself! You're a realist. You could've had the comfort of the illusion, but you chose to fight. You chose to come back here. That's what's important. Not the fact that you dreamed those things, but that you decided to leave them all behind. To keep on doing what we do."

Dean nods, not trusting his voice. _Damn right I did. Couldn't leave you here, on your own._

Sam gives him a half-smile. "And you don't give up, even when you're dead on your feet, your shoulder's out of joint, and you're facing off with a demon."

"Couldn't let that bastard get back to the camp…" As he says it, he realizes that it's true. It's ingrained in him, to protect the innocent, to save lives. Even at the cost of his own life. And he might hate it, sometimes, but he wouldn't want to give up that part of himself. It's who he is.

It's as if something disjointed slips back into place.

"You know," Sam continues, "all you had left was your .45. Wouldn't have done much good against a demon. What would you have done if I hadn't shown up?"

"I'd have found a way."

"All I'm saying is, good thing I got there in time."

Dean grins. "Stop fishing for compliments, princess. I still had my boot knife."

Sam snorts. "Right."

He eases the Impala back onto the freeway, and Dean reaches for a cassette. Lynyrd suits his mood, and he leans back. He lets the words wash over him, easing the ache in his shoulder.

_Life is so strange when it's changin', yes indeed_

_Well I've seen the hard times and the pressure's been on me_

_But I keep on workin' like the workin' man do_

_And I've got my act together, gonna walk all over you_

"Don't fall asleep," Sam reminds him.

"Sure," he agrees, closing his eyes.

There's a moment of silence, and then it comes: "Jerk."

"Bitch," he shoots back. "Wake me when we get to the motel."

_Sweet talkin' people done ran me out of town_

_And I drank enough whiskey to float a battleship around_

_But I'm leavin' this game one step ahead of you_

_And you will not hear me cry 'cause I do not sing the blues_

**The end.**

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** The song is "Gimme Back My Bullets" by Lynyrd Skynyrd.

The argopelter is a cryptid, a mythological creature whose existence hasn't yet been proven. Google it. There are pictures.


End file.
